


Pull Me To Hell

by Senket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, M/M, Murder, Rough Sex, Wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-15
Updated: 2011-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:25:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> based on<a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=33456983#t33456983"> this prompt</a> for Part XII: <em>S/J and M/L are together and happy. Moriarty and his gang kill John <i>and</i>  Mycroft, in pretty horrific circumstances and make Sherlock and  Lestrade watch, now they want and will get revenge. They team up and go  looking for Moriarty. After losing John I can see Sherlock going  psycho pretty easily but I'd love to see good copper Lestrade so full of  rage and grief that he forgets about the law and goes for torture and  murder of the bad guys along Sherlock. Bonus points if Sherlock  and Lestrade have sex, but they are thinking about J and M all the way  and they just want to feel alive for a little while.</em> Not a completely accurate fill, but nevertheless I think it captured the idea of it fine?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pull Me To Hell

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [  Ticking Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/528603) by [Senket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket). 



>   I'm still inexorably flattered that someone asked this prompt to be filled as a sequel to another prompt I had filled only a few pages previously. Phew! I did the continuing story justice, hopefully. **I absolutely recommend you read[Ticking Down](http://senket.livejournal.com/13631.html#cutid1) first, as I'm not sure this fic makes sense without it.**

** Fire and Ice **

_ Some say the world will end in fire, _  
_ Some say in ice. _  
_ From what I’ve tasted of desire _  
_ I hold with those who favour fire. _  
_ But if it had to perish twice, _  
_ I think I know enough of hate _  
_ To say that for destruction ice _  
_ Is also great _  
_ And would suffice. _   


-Robert Frost

__

_ \------------- _

__

Lestrade gagged, sucking in a wheezing gasp as Sherlock’s hands closed around his throat, pale eyes blistering with fury and pain. “It should’ve been you. _It should’ve been you in that cage._ ”

“Yes,” he gasped, arching. He struggled to think past the darkening of his vision, rapidly melting until it was only them and that _scream_ that would never leave him, the sound of the world ending. Them and two corpses, swaying behind bars. His body blazed to life, tensing, burning with sensation. “ _Yes._ ”

Sherlock’s weight was full on him now, straddling him, pushing him down into the hard floor. Tightening his fingers, Sherlock leaned close. Lestrade arched and gagged, curling his fingers around the man’s wiry wrists but made no move to remove the hands.

“You could’ve been John.” Sherlock’s voice sounded different, soft and defeated, distant. Relaxing his grip to stroke one hand over Lestrade’s face lightly he rocked forward.

Lestrade sucked in a shaky breath, throwing his head back as he gasped, coughing. 

Sherlock stroked long fingers down the rapidly purpling skin. “John,” he whispered, a pain and a prayer as he traced the edges of first bruising. His eyes were dark with something else, hazy with memory, the image of an empty body lax in his arms, a thick, shining violet line across a white throat. “ _John_ ,” he repeated, stroking his thumb against Lestrade’s Adam’s apple. “This could’ve been you. It could’ve been _you_.”

He leaned down to run his tongue against the abused skin- Lestrade gasped softly, whimpered, pushing up.  
  
  


_ “Why did you pick me? Why? Why why why why? Of all the stupid, **stupid** _ ** - ** _ ” _

_ “Only you can catch him, Sherlock, only you.” _

_ “No, Mycroft could’ve caught him-“ he made a sound like cracked whimpering, curling around his lover’s still body, pressing his face against a cool throat. “Mycroft could’ve, Mycroft, oh Mycroft, my brother Mycroft.” _

_ Lestrade stumbled sideways, eyes wet and sightless as he sank down and down and down. Mycroft, his Mycroft, his brilliant, fascinating, caring, perfect Mycroft, gone gone gone, leaving only this broken thing: Sherlock, his only legacy. _

_ “I trust you to protect him,” Mycroft had said, the very first time they’d met. “I trust you,” he’d said every time after that, and Lestrade had known what it meant. _

_ How could he protect anyone from this empty **nothing** _ ** ,  ** _ this pain like a black hole in his chest, this place where nothing else would ever fit, how could he protect Sherlock from **that** _ ?

_ “Mycroft, my brother Mycroft, oh John, **John** , my John, my amazing, my brilliant my absolutely unsuspected, my- oh god John, John, John, no, no, no _ , **_no. I’ll kill him I’ll fucking kill him, I will BURN him_** _.’_

__

__

“John,” Sherlock panted, rocking mindlessly now, hot tongue tracing patterns across the other man’s collar-bone, peeling Lestrade’s clothes apart, layer after layer, empty kisses and harsh bites when he remembered who was beneath him, mumbling hot against his skin.

“John, my John, my doctor Watson, my blogger, my lover, John, this could’ve been you, it could’ve been _you_.”

Lestrade sobbed wordlessly, fire through his veins, need as thick as regret as he writhed beneath chemical-stained fingers. He fell apart under Sherlock’s rough touch, crying out sorrow and loss. Sherlock pressed a hard kiss against the skin of his belly, traced a line around Lestrade’s hip bone with his lips.

Tearing aside his trousers, Sherlock gripped Lestrade’s erection painfully, pressing his nose against it, lightly running his tongue along the underside. The ex-cop twitched once, whimpering. Sherlock gripped Lestrade’s leg suddenly, pushing it up so that it was flush up against him, and sank his teeth into the man’s thigh.

Lestrade thought he heard himself scream but it sounded so much like that great, living grief roaring constantly in his ears he couldn’t be sure it was real.

The sound receded when Sherlock replaced his teeth with his tongue, lapping away blood with a hot sigh.

Lestrade shuddered, knees falling apart. Sherlock nuzzled against him, idly suckling at the base of his penis, fingers idly rubbing against his perineum, mumbling cracked ‘could’ve been you’s.

‘You’re the last thing I have,’ Lestrade thought brokenly, feeling as though he was burning up, like the pit in his chest was finally eating him alive, like maybe he’d finally have some sort of peace in eradication. ‘The last thing I have of him, the end of me. You are the end of me, Sherlock.’

He felt the pain before he knew what was happening- Sherlock was kissing him, violently, destructively, nails digging into the wound in his thigh, blood running hot down his skin. He responded just as violently, clawing at the man’s shoulders. He bit when Sherlock pressed his fingers against Lestrade’s lip, then sucked like he was trying to draw life out of them, to pour it into him until he felt like something human again.

Sherlock barely seemed to notice, eyes glassy as he muttered meaningless platitudes against the man’s silvering stubble, rocking instinctively, the words tumbling out of his mouth meant for someone that was rotting away. Sherlock’s mouth was against his again and he tasted smoke.  
  
  
  


_ Ashes drifted from the sky like dark snow, slowly turning the world grey. It had already turned grey, all but the violent violet bruises ringing the dead men’s necks. They watched in silence, expressions empty as the rising inferno turned their skin to paper, burned the tears out of their eyes. Baptism by Fire. Welcome to Hell. Living after Death. Hello, My Reaper. _

__ Sherlock cradled The Shell of John Watson against his breast, mouth dangling open, eyes like a ghost. Beside him Lestrade held hands with Once Mycroft Holmes, their unmatched rings gleaming almost-white from the rising flames.  
  
  
  


He screamed when the first finger pushed into him- the second, the third, pausing to pant as Sherlock withdrew long enough to shove his own trousers down his hips. Sherlock pushed into him with a single, violent trust. Lestrade threw his head back, shriek torn from him, pressing himself closer even as every muscle contracted in defense.

The sound seemed to upset Sherlock because he stroked his fingers against Lestrade’s face, tracing the bridge of his nose and across his lips as he burbled. “No, no, John, wait, wait, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, it’ll be good, I promise, just wait, wait, it’s okay, I’ll kill him, I’ll destroy him, we’ll _break_ him, we’ll _tear him to pieces_. John, John, it’ll be so good, I promise, I _promise,_ just wait. Wait wait wait wait.”

‘This is all I have left,’ Lestrade thought hysterically, desperately thrusting back against the rocking body, feeling pain tear through him- the physical barely noticeable again thegreat din of **grief** like a constant scream in his head, a mere changed pitch in a cacophony of twisted metal. ‘This is all I have of you, Mycroft, this is everything you’ve left behind.’

\-------------------------

Switzerland was cold, but they didn’t care about cold now.Moriarty was standing before them, snow and nothing between them and him, only a great long fall behind. Despite that he looked certain of himself, grinning against the cold nothing of Sherlock’s hard expression.

“Here we are, my friends,” he said, looking at them in turn as though re-familiarizing himself with old comrades, undaunted by the pistol Sherlock had trained on him. Moriarty flashed a quick smile, raising his eyebrows, throwing his arms wide as he greeted them. “Found me at last." Grinning, he tucked his hands in his pockets again, absolutely unconcerned. "What shall we do now? Discuss things?”

“I should like to kill you, instead,” Sherlock answered expressionlessly, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the wailing wind, over the constant buzz in Lestrade’s ears.

“With that?” Moriarty laughed, glancing disdainfully at the gleaming barrel. “Not afraid your fingers will shake? After all, you’re no J-“

The shot went off before he could get any farther defiling the dead man’s name. His expression of surprise really was quite fascinating. Strange, that he should feel so astonished- after all, _he_ had driven them to this.

Gun lowered, Sherlock and Lestrade stared impassively as Jim Moriarty raised his fingers before his face, sticky and bright from the blood and acid that gushed from his abdomen, stumbling backwards.

He made a blot of colour against the endless stretches of white snow and black rock, already shivering with the inset of shock.

They stood and stood and stood, frozen figures vacant against the roar around them, the world ending again, baptized by the cold flurries drifting down from the sky. They watched as Moriarty twisted and writhed, digging himself deeper into the cold ground, a self-made grave. They watched as the strangled gurgles died away, as his eyes turned yellow and then empty, watched as he finally stilled with a last whimper. Watched and watched and watched as the body slowly vanished under a sheet of white.

Sherlock did not shake once. He moved for nothing. Not anymore.

Lestrade did not stir once. He moved for no one. Not anymore.

They had frozen long ago.


End file.
